Tired from the
Night's dancing
They lie
Limp,
Elbows and hair sagging,
Street water
Taped to
Their breath.

Ends already unraveling,
They call out to
One another,
Frantic to find
Someone from their homeland
Before they die.

Please, are you from Rite-Aid?

This is their
Plea.

Then one
Night, at the club,
Amongst the
Labyrinth of jiving feet,
One hopeless
Soldier
Takes one last
Gasp
Of the vomit-filled stench
And twitches as
He sighs it out:
Dead.

Replaced by
His grandson
By morning, we know
Naught of the fruitless
Dreams of his kind.

With nothing better
To offer than guesses
As to where their
Forgotten and broken
Shells lie,
Buried in a sea
Of other unknown
Tales,
With less than even
The inkling of a newborn
As to where their sorry days
Began,
We know simply that
They can be replaced.